


Moanin'

by orphan_account



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: AKA the AU no one asked for, College AU, F/F, Unresolved Sexual Tension, jazz students au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25615099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The drummer and the prodigy's blues and swing, sitting together at the piano bench.
Relationships: Jeanne d'Arc Alter | Avenger/Artoria Pendragon Alter | Saber
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Moanin'

**Author's Note:**

> UM hi this is a short fic i wrote as a warmup but i figured i might as well post it....... hhhhhh i hope you enjoy!
> 
> here's what i was listening to while writing this (and also the inspo for the title), maybe you'll enjoy it too <3 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fsJ3JjpZyoA

The piano bench is as small as they come; the cushion lies squished against their weights combined, they themselves squished against one another. Jeanne's arms and hands go from crossing over her chest to laying on her lap to performing absentmindedness as they fumble with the hem of her jacket, but remain far from the keys in a respect she'd rather die than admit to, and with a fascination she almost tricks herself into dismissing.  
  
Arturia's fingers are long and slender, moving in designated time like tiny soldiers to the will and image of she who commands them. They're a pianist's fingers, Jeanne notes, although she did say she had experience with a few other instruments.  
  
It takes Jeanne one, or hopefully no more than two full minutes to acknowledge the coda’s gone by already, and abruptly snaps out of her reverie to respond to such a display, almost condescending in its flawlessness, with her own fanged commentary.  
  
"Aren't _you_ talented."  
  
"It's practice," Arturia counters. "Talent is nothing but an excuse to give up on your goals–" fingers like carved steel graze the keys once more, this time as if caressing it, and in her mind Jeanne pictures a huntsman praising his foxhound, and hates how much like a deer she feels when a pair of golden eyes, lifted from the hunt, settle on her instead. "Or rather, the lack of it is."  
  
It’s a jab at her own competence, but it leaves no dent. It’s paper to a pyre.  
  
"Good thing i have nothing to worry about, then."  
  
A prolonged rest ensues, Jeanne and her perpetual peeve, Arturia and her contrived speech. Abnormally, however, it is the latter who first returns life to the room:  
  
"Would you like to try your hand at the piano?"  
  
Jeanne scoffs. "Me? I'm not some love struck underclassman of yours, Pendragon, and you know this isn't my kind of thing."  
  
Arturia's gaze is penetrating and undefeated. Jeanne sighs.  
  
"You want a drummer to play piano for you? Right here, right now, right from square one?" This silence of hers can only translate to an order. “You got it, your majesty.”

Her sarcasm doesn’t spread past her tone, though; her hands hover over light and dark notes she can only barely tell apart, her sight perched hesitantly on the score’s first compass. She remembers Arturia’s being steady in place, nailed to the first page and staring straight through it, with mechanic elegance and mechanic perfection.

She, on the other hand, does not even have the skill to half-ass it, recalling what basic knowledge she retained from music academy and pressing each key with rough humility. They’re disconnected here and there and blurted like a clumsy confession, and she swears she hears a chuckle escape Arturia. She turns to protest but long wiped is the would-be smile.

“Your tempo’s all over the place. Your fingers too. Focus.”

“This is basically my first time, how do you expect me to-”

She doesn’t let her finish. Jeanne doesn’t remember there being so much as an inch left between their torsos, nonetheless Arturia’s closing it wholly in a single beat, she’s taking her hands into her own palms in half that measure, once again the cold caress, this time around upon Jeanne's very skin, piano ivory turning rose red, sore fluster becoming meek and tame.

“I’ll show you.”

And with gentleness uncharacteristic she takes Jeanne's hands to slowly find their place within each moment, when spreading and then again joining together they are butterflies kissing lilies and dancing on jasmine, in discipline they peruse and coax melody from the song. Arturia steps on the pedal now and then to try and save what grace is left in the ever so gently botched sonata, and whenever their knees brush together Jeanne feels her toes curl in place.

It takes twice the amount of time but they reach the end together as they began, and where Jeanne is averting her face further Arturia struggles to catch her breath, surprised as to when it was ever lost. It’s heavy on the back of Jeanne's neck, and it could just make her shudder.

Jeanne clears her throat, and finds leverage in, unlike Arturia, recalling the whereabouts of her own voice, however edged and pliant.

“...How touching. Color me honored— to have you of all people thrilled and panting.”


End file.
